


Taking a Chance

by gracefultree



Series: 2020: John Warren [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Demisexual Character, John Wiley, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9612062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: Harold ran into John at a restaurant in 2020, only to find out that John thought he was John Warren and didn't remember Harold or anything beyond 9/11.  Now Harold has to decide what to do.





	1. Telling Grace

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second version of what might happen with the above scenario. Enjoy!

“Who’s that?” Grace asked, leaning over Harold’s shoulder to peek at his internet browser. “A work contact? I’ve never heard of Pebler, Wright and Associates.”

Harold licked his lips before answering, feeling a nervous energy course through his body. _Now or never, Harold,_ he thought. _Trust Grace. She’s a loving, kind, generous person. The Machine wants me to tell her. The Machine wouldn’t steer me wrong about this, would she?_

“This is John,” he answered. “I mentioned him once or twice when we first moved back to New York. My former colleague.” 

“ _Your_ John? He’s handsome!” 

“Ah, yes, I’m aware. He has a bit more gray in his hair than when I knew him — of course, it’s been a few years — but I think it adds a certain distinction to his appearance that would serve him well in his chosen career. He’s a vice president of his company, now, you see, and —” 

“Wait —“ Harold braced himself. “—That says he got this position in 2019. That means —“ 

“He’s alive,” Harold interrupted. “Yes. I ran into him last night. I hadn’t quite gathered the courage to tell you yet, and I thought having his picture up would facilitate starting the conversation. I feel I embarrassed myself with him, actually, but it was such a shock to see him alive and breathing and right in front of me like that…” He raised a hand to forestall her from saying anything. “I had no idea he was alive before last night. Truly. And there’s a complication: He doesn’t remember me.” 

“What do you mean, doesn’t remember you?” she asked, her voice concerned. No anger yet, which was good. He could always trust in her kind and gentle nature. Unlike his automatic paranoia, her gut reaction of trust and her innate desire to help others would likely help them through the conversation to come. 

“He says he woke up in 2017 without any memory of the last 16 years. The last thing he remembered was watching the Towers fall on 9/11. He doesn’t remember me, or our work, or almost dying, or any of it. He doesn’t remember the job he had before he worked with me, which is a good thing, but I did some checking, and he had to retake his MBA course from the beginning, not to mention several recent history classes…” 

“Oh, wow. I’m not sure what to say.” She rested a hand on his shoulder. “That must have been so hard for him. And now for you two to meet after all this time and under these circumstances. How are you doing? Will you see him again? Will you —“ 

Harold took a deep breath and let it out slowly, tuning out her questions. He’d remember them later and answer them, but for now, he needed to concentrate on the main issue at hand. John was alive and he was talking to Grace about him. He counted the first 100 digits of pi in his head. He closed his eyes briefly. “I’m afraid I have a bit of a confession to make, and I’m not sure that it will —“ He broke off, his practiced speech flying away in the face of an anxiety the likes of which he’d never experienced with her before. “I worry that I will hurt you by telling you,” he finished softly. 

Grace removed her hand from his shoulder and stepped away. “Why don’t I make us some tea?” she suggested, disappearing into the kitchen. Harold closed his laptop and went to the living room to wait. 

“What do you have to tell me?” Grace asked once they were seated with their tea. Her demeanor was guarded, an expression he realized he’d been seeing more and more often lately. 

“You know that I think about every angle of a situation before acting, that I do not let my emotions control me without evaluating them first, that I try to maintain logic in the face of uncontrollable circumstances. This often makes me seem cold to others, unfeeling.” 

“We’ve talked about this before, sweetie. You know I don’t think that of you,” Grace reassured him. 

“The point is, however, that when I saw him last night I — I acted without thought.” 

“You slept with him?” 

“Good Lord, no!” Harold exclaimed. “I merely kissed him. Once. In public. Then the emotions overwhelmed me and I’m ashamed to say that I collapsed to the ground in tears like a badly-acted character in a sitcom.” 

When he managed to raise his face to see her expression, he felt nearly overwhelmed again by the compassion in her eyes. “Oh, Harold, that’s nothing to be ashamed about,” she said, reaching forward to grab his hand. “You love him. Of course you’re going to do something like that.” 

“But it’s never happened to me before,” he protested. “Even with you, I — I’ve always been able to control myself, my feelings. I control them, not the other way around.” 

“Love changes everything,” she said softly. “And each love is different. It’ll come out in a different way.” 

“I’m so very sorry,” he whispered. “I won’t do anything like that again. I won’t —“ 

“Harold, listen to me for a minute,” she interrupted. “I’m not angry. I’m not mad. I’m a little upset and a little sad, but that’s ok, that’s normal. I love you, and I don’t want to see you in the kind of pain you’ve been in the last four years if there’s anything I can do to help you.” 

“What are you saying?” 

Grace paused before answering, weighing her words in a way that was more his style than hers. “I think we should call off the engagement.” 

“What?” he demanded. His hands shook as he tried to put his teacup down on the saucer. She took it from him and put them on the table. 

“We’re not, well, we’re not working. We haven’t been working for a while. I’d rather end it pleasantly and stay friends than prolong it and grow to hate and resent each other.” 

“You think we can stay friends?” 

“If you look at us objectively, as you so like to do, we’re already the best of friends. We’re not lovers, not anymore, even though we sleep in the same bed. We haven’t been since you came back. It’s just taken John being alive for us to come to this point, to admit that’s what’s really going on. You have a chance at real happiness with him. I’d hate myself if I held you back from that,” she insisted. 

“Grace, I —“ 

“Think about it, Harold. Think about us, and about John, and about what you want your future to look like. I’ll still be here for you, no matter what, ok? I’m not disappearing into the ether, no matter what we decide. I would never hurt you like that.” 

Harold felt her words like a blow. She might never hurt him like that, but _he_ certainly would. He’d proved that once already. But she meant it: She wouldn’t stop being his friend because they were no longer engaged or dating. 

Hell, they’d probably both be happier. 

“What could I have possibly done to deserve someone like you in my life?” he asked, feeling tears falling for the second time in less than a day. “I’m so ashamed of what I did to you, but I’d do it again, and I don’t deserve your compassion or forgiveness, and yet I have both. I love you so much, Grace, and I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know what to do!” 

“We’ll figure it out together,” she assured him, shifting so she could hold him. “For now, though, please call him.” 

“I don’t have his number,” Harold admitted. 

“It’s right there on the webpage!” 

“I’m not calling him at work to — what? — Ask him out? I gave him my cell number. I’ll wait for him to call.” 

“You think he will?” 

“I’m a link to a past he doesn’t remember. Of course he’ll call.” 

Grace sat back. “Maybe we should talk about us, then…” 

. 

. 

. 


	2. Lunch Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Harold for lunch.

John arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early for lunch with Harold, unable to keep himself away any longer. The half-dozen texts between them hadn’t given him much new information about either Harold or himself, other than the fact that Harold texted in full sentences with proper grammar and formal language. He also had a larger than average vocabulary. It was endearing, John thought, hiding his smile behind his hand, a habit he’d spent years trying to break after he’d woken up in the hospital. Why should he hide his smile, anyway?

Harold invited him to lunch, with a specific place, day and time already in mind, and John hadn’t been able to say no. Not that he wanted to say no, of course. He was fascinated by the little he knew about Harold and their shared past. He wanted to learn more, even if Harold didn’t want to speak on the phone yet. 

Maybe then he’d find out where he received some of his scars, and why he’d had so many broken bones and why he’d been shot so many times, when he’d already had, according to the doctors, ‘over two-dozen’ bullet wounds already on his body. What had he been _doing?_

Harold sat on a bench outside the restaurant, despite the cold weather, a large dog in a bright orange service vest sitting next to him on the pavement. At John’s approach, the dog got to his feet and barked happily, wagging his tail enthusiastically. Harold looked up from his book and smiled when he saw John. 

“Bear’s been excited to see you ever since I told him we were meeting you this morning,” Harold said as soon as John was close enough to hear. “Do you mind if he greets you?” Harold was already bending down to unhook the leash from the dog’s collar. 

John wasn’t sure of the etiquette of greeting service dogs while they were working, but Harold unclipped the vest as well, so he figured Harold knew what he was doing and that it wouldn’t disrupt the dog’s training/working routine. 

“I love dogs but don’t have the time to have one,” he replied, and in the space of a heartbeat the 75-pound dog was knocking him to the ground with his enthusiasm. After a few moments of doggy kisses and head-scratching, Harold called Bear back with a word that sounded vaguely German and put the vest and leash on him again. He stood, stepping closer to John. 

John offered a hand, but Harold hugged him instead, so John hugged him back, feeling his chest loosen. Harold’s cologne smelled spicy and familiar, though it was different from the one he wore the other night, and the press of their bodies felt welcoming in the March chill. 

“Are you going to kiss me again?” John wondered in a low whisper against Harold’s ear. Harold’s entire body shivered in his arms. 

“Perhaps,” Harold answered teasingly. He shifted so he could meet John’s eyes. His face lightened with mischief. “Would you like me to kiss you again, Mr. Warren?” 

“Yes,” John said simply. 

Far more tender than the kiss from the week before, this kiss had none of the flavor of desperation coming from Harold. Instead, it felt like Harold was giving him a gift of passion. John felt comfortable kissing him, much more so than he might have thought, kissing a man out on the street in front of a popular New York lunch spot when he knew he had no experience with men or being affectionate with them, let alone in public. Kissing Harold just felt _right._

They kissed until a passing group of teenagers wolf-whistled. Harold buried his face in John’s coat for a moment. “I’m sorry, that got a little out of hand, didn’t it?” he mumbled. “I’m not usually so — forward.” 

“I should’ve asked before, but do you and your fiancee have an open relationship? I wouldn’t want —“ 

“Shall we go inside?” Harold interrupted. “I’ll tell you everything relevant to the situation.” 

. 

. 

. 

“Grace and I ended our engagement,” Harold began, settling Bear under the table. “We felt it wasn’t what either of us wanted any longer and I moved out.” John opened his mouth to respond, but Harold put a hand on his arm to stop him. “It should’ve happened years ago, John. You were merely the catalyst that made ignoring our mutual unhappiness no longer a viable option.” He sighed sadly. “Denial can only go on so long, it seems.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John answered. “But a selfish part of me is happy that you’re free to explore whatever we have.” 

“We have a lot,” Harold murmured. “Far more than you know.” 

“Where do we go from here?” 

“First a glass of wine and lunch.” Harold motioned over their waitress. “Please inform Chef Thornton that Harold Petrel is here and would enjoy speaking with her, as long as it doesn’t interrupt her work.” 

“Harold Petrel?” John asked. “Not Wren?” 

“Most of my aliases have bird names,” Harold answered. “You and I helped Lily a few months into our association by removing a stalker from her life. She might remember you as a neighbor or as the man who helped her super get rid of the problem. Oh, and she’s been Executive Chef here for the past two years. I’ve been following her career since I returned to New York.” 

The chef did, indeed, recognize John. She smiled widely on seeing him and coaxed him to stand so she could hug him. 

“I haven’t seen you with Harold lately,” she said once they were all seated. 

“Oh, with work schedules we haven’t been in touch for a few years,” John replied. “I’m back in town and he thought I’d enjoy seeing you and your restaurant.” 

“I’m so glad! I still can’t believe how you helped me like that, a perfect stranger.” 

“It’s what we do,” John answered, feeling that that was the right thing to say, especially when he saw Harold’s subtle nod of approval. 

Once Lily left them, John turned his attention back to Harold. 

“I should start by saying that human interaction has never been easy for me,” Harold said. “Human sexuality even less so.” 

“It would help if you didn’t call it that,” John pointed out, curious as to where Harold was leading the conversation. Harold’s lip twitched slightly. “I’ve said that before, haven’t I?” 

“Yes. It was a favorite response of Nathan’s, as well.” 

“Nathan?” 

“My best friend and business partner,” Harold explained. “We met in college, and he died in 2010, before you and I knew each other.” Harold sipped his wine. “As I said, sexuality has never been something I’ve understood particularly well, nor romance, though I know how to fake both. I’ve come to discover that I must have a deep, emotional connection with someone before I feel attracted to them physically or desire them sexually.” He paused. “You’re one of only three people with whom I’ve connected closely enough to have that desire and attraction.” 

“I’m honored,” John said. “One of the interns at my office is like that. They call themselves demisexual.” 

“A term I’m familiar with, though not one I would apply to myself. I don’t see the need to claim an identity in such a manner. Perhaps because I’m no longer young,” he added in an undertone. 

“Ah.” 

“This might be abrupt of me to say, but I’d be interested in a romantic relationship with you.” 

“Even though I’m not the same man you knew before?” 

“I wasn’t aware of my feelings when I knew you before,” Harold said. “It took losing you and then finding you so suddenly to awaken my understanding. Grace and I have been talking about it all week, trying to understand. She and I are still close, but I lost that desire for her years ago. She wants the option of sex and touch in a partnership, so we no longer fit each other. It’s been both difficult and extremely easy to admit it, once we confronted the truth.” 

“When you say ‘touch,’ what do you mean?” 

Harold frowned at his plate for a moment. “I’ve never enjoyed when people touch me. Skin-to-skin contact feels wrong, somehow, like sandpaper grating against me. I’ve grown accustomed to it from medical providers, but casual touch between strangers or acquaintances…” He trailed off, looking away. “There are things I’ve had to learn how to do for business, like shake hands, but I avoid it when I can. Even people I’ve felt close to… it takes a while for me to acclimate and accept touch, let alone give it. Grace is a sensual woman. She wants more frequent casual touches from me than I’m comfortable giving her. Though I love her, and at one point desired her… I haven’t liked disappointing her in this way,” he finished quietly. 

“What does it mean that you’ve kissed me twice now? You’ve hugged me.” 

“When I first hired you, there wasn’t physical contact between us. But you kept getting injured. You needed me to patch you up, put in stitches, clean wounds… I found myself touching you without feeling that awful sensation. As we became closer, when I took care of you after you were shot the first time… it stopped being an issue. I’m comfortable touching you.” 

John allowed himself to relax. “I wouldn’t want you to force yourself to do something that doesn’t feel good,” he murmured. “That being said, I’d be happy to be your boyfriend, I think,” he said. “I’ve never been with a man, so —“ He stopped when he saw the renewed sour expression on Harold’s face. “What?” 

“I keep forgetting how little you know of yourself. You’ve been with men, John. It’s never been your preference, but you’ve done it.” 

It was John’s turn to frown. 

“We’re going at this the wrong way, perhaps,” Harold said. “I would like to learn how to accept touch. I’d like to become more comfortable in my body. Instinct tells me I can do those things with you.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I have some injuries…” 

“You said I worked for you? And got shot?” 

“Yes. I’d like to save that part of the conversation for a more private location, if you don’t mind. Prying ears, and all that.” 

“No one’s paying attention to us,” John pointed out. 

“George Orwell was an incredibly brilliant man. Ahead of his time, of course, but then science fiction became science fact.” 

“You’re saying the surveillance state actually _exists?”_

“You’ve watched the president and his laughable administration. You tell me how they got away with so much if not by exploiting information they should never have had in the first place.” 

“And lying through their teeth and claiming it was truth,” John grumbled. 

“Hmm, perhaps we should veer away from such a loaded topic of conversation? This is supposed to be a first date. If you want that, of course. It could just be lunch with a friend.” 

“I’d like to date you,” John said, responding to the hope in Harold’s voice. “We can take things as slowly as you need. If you don’t like something, we’ll stop.” 

“You’d be willing to do that for me?” 

“I’ve felt more alive since meeting you than the entire rest of the time since I woke in the hospital. Getting ready to meet you today, I felt excited. I haven’t felt that in years. I want to see where this goes.” 

Harold extended a hand and John took it, stroking the back with his thumb. He brought it to his lips. Harold blushed and looked down at his plate. 

“I want to get to know you, and not just because of my past,” John insisted. “I’m relieved that you want to date me, that I’m one of those people you connect with. I feel like losing you would break something inside me.” 

Harold squeezed his fingers and closed his eyes. “It certainly broke something in me,” he whispered. Under the table, Bear perked up, butting his head against Harold’s leg, then John’s. 

The waitress arrived with their first course. 

. 

. 

.


	3. Tea and Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Harold and John's date...

Harold prepared tea with the precision of a scientist, setting everything out on a silver tray. While the tea steeped, he loaded the tray with cups and saucers, sugar, milk, lemon, the teapot and pink-frosted donuts with rainbow sprinkles. He carried the whole thing over to the seating area, setting it on the end table between an armchair and the sofa. He took the armchair. 

“Earl Gray, a special blend I had made,” Harold commented as he poured tea into each cup. “Milk and sugar or lemon?” 

“Just milk, please. Those donuts look sugary enough,” John replied. 

Harold’s lips twitched briefly into a smile, then returned to their tight line. “You’ll have one, though? I ordered them especially for you. They were your favorite.” 

“Can’t say no after you’ve said something like that.” John picked up a donut. 

Strawberry glaze burst on his tongue and John closed his eyes to savor the flavor. Suddenly, he was somewhere else. He smelled gunpowder, dust and old paper, wet dog, and Harold’s ever-changing cologne or aftershave based on which alias he intended to use that day. 

A library. He was in a library. Harold sat at a computer station with books and papers and bits of technology. Behind him was a cracked glass board with a headshot of a person taped up. A woman. She was in danger: caught embezzling and on the run from her less than moral boss’ hitman. He had a gun in his hand, a Sig Saur, his favorite. He was about to go save her, and he still needed to get his vest, because the hitman might have a partner and after the last time he got shot, he really didn’t want to deal with the hassle of needing to call Megan _again._

Besides, Harold hated it when he got shot. 

“John?” 

John jerked back into the present. His donut lay face-down on the carpet and Harold had a hand resting gently on his knee, concern in his eyes. 

“What did you remember?” Harold asked. 

“Chyna Williams,” John answered, still a little lost in the memory. “I almost walked out without my vest.” 

Harold nodded and released his hold on John’s knee. He sat back in his chair. “She was one of our more ‘tame’ numbers,” he said. “You made it through without getting shot at or cut, though you took a kick to the thigh that made a spectacular bruise. Your attacker wore steel-toed boots.” 

“You said I worked for you. Maybe we should start there?” 

“September 11th is the true beginning,” Harold countered. “At least for our particular story.” 

“What were you doing when it happened?” 

“Coding. Nathan and I owned IFT, and I was alone in a lab working on a project. I had no idea it had happened until he came and found me that night. We watched the news and drank scotch for hours.” 

“I was in Niagara Falls with Allison,” John offered. He paused. “That never sounds right when I say it. It sounds hollow. That’s the last thing I remember, and it’s such a vague memory. Just white hotel sheets and sun and laughter. Until she turned on the tv, of course.” 

“You were actually in Mexico with Jessica,” Harold said. “Allison never existed. You reenlisted. Then you advanced within the army, and continued advancing, then the CIA recruited you. I found you after they were done with you and ordered your partner to kill you. You’d been given the same order, of course, but you couldn’t do it, while she shot you in the back. You made it out, but you were never the same.” 

John shook his head. “That’s a lot to take in.” 

“I know.” 

“I _knew_ I wasn’t a banker!” John banged his knee with his fist to make his point. 

Harold’s lips twitched briefly into a small smile again. “You were very good at your job. But you disliked the wetwork. It was part of why you were retired. The other part, I’m sad to say, was my fault, though I didn’t know it until much later.” 

“I take it you’re not an insurance salesman?” John asked with a smirk reminiscent of the ones he’d used years before. 

“Hardly, though I fake it well enough.” 

“You seem to fake a lot of things,” John commented. 

“That’s been my life since I shed my name at seventeen and recreated myself to avoid being detained by the FBI,” Harold explained. 

“I need a drink.” 

. 

. 

. 

Harold talked. He told John about the Machine he built, and the consequences of selling it to the government. He talked about losing Nathan, and taking up his crusade to honor his memory. He talked about his own life since then, and the work they did together. He talked about Samaritan, and the war, and how they almost lost, and his part in winning. He talked about his desire to sacrifice himself so John could live, only to find John had done the same thing. Only John had the Machine on his side, and Harold ended up on the wrong roof with the wrong briefcase, bleeding and angry and wishing desperately that their plan would work, that somehow John would survive, too. 

John asked a few questions, though for the most part he remained silent. He sipped his drink slowly, not wanting to get drunk, but needing something to do. He watched the emotions on Harold’s face, analyzed him as much as he could. 

None of what Harold spoke about sounded familiar. 

It explained the scars, though. 

Harold’s phone buzzed from inside his pocket. He pulled it out to look at it. 

“Apparently, it’s dinner time,” he said. “Groceries should be here —“ 

The doorbell rang. John jumped up to answer it, nervous energy making him need to move. 

As John cooked, he talked about waking up in the hospital, about the brief moment of doubt when he wondered if it was worth trying to rebuild his life. He talked about finding out who he was, about needing to take his MBA course a second time, about how nice his boss had been about the whole thing. 

“You never took it the first time,” Harold interjected. “It was a part of your cover identity.” 

John shook his head and started talking again. His life, his work, his failed attempts at dating, his unhappiness with a life most people would spend their whole lives trying to build. He told Harold about his compulsive need to work out for several hours each night if he wanted to sleep, and about his charity works. He showed Harold the gun he carried, just in case — 

“Just in case of what, I don’t know, but hearing that I was a CIA operative, well, that explains some of my more bizarre behaviors, don’t you think?” he wondered aloud, adding soy sauce to the chicken and vegetables in the wok. 

“It’s amazing what our subconscious makes us do,” Harold replied. “Samaritan broke through my cover identity because I went to the same cafe and ordered the same drinks ten years after my first date with Grace. It was enough to connect Professor Whistler to Harold Martin, and from there it was an easy leap for the AI to figure out that I was Harold Wren and Harold Finch and all the others.” 

. 

. 

. 

“Stay the night,” Harold suggested between kisses. 

“If I didn’t have work in the morning,” John answered. “I can’t go in wearing today’s suit.” 

“I’ll make sure you have something appropriate,” Harold responded, slipping his hand under John’s shirt. “It’ll be here by six.” 

“You thought that far ahead?” John teased. 

“No, of course I didn’t want to assume — I —“ 

“Relax. I’d love to spend the night. I just want to make sure you’re ok with how fast this is going. It’s our first date…” 

“I’ve been dreaming of having sex with you,” Harold blurted. 

“Really?” John couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. 

“It’s all so new… I never felt this way with Nathan. I didn’t figure out until years later that my feelings towards him had become desire. I never dreamed about him, never considered telling him, only in part because I didn’t understand what was happening. But with you, John, with you I want to try everything, to touch and be touched, to —“ 

John cupped his cheek and pulled him close for another kiss to interrupt the flow of words. Harold was so open with who he was… he didn’t know how to respond. He’d been sharing, offering as much as Harold did, but it felt strange, like it wasn’t how things were supposed to go between them. 

And yet he wanted this. He wanted to kiss Harold. He wanted to share everything with him. 

Just like before, kissing Harold felt right, and he didn’t want to lose that. 

He took a chance and moved his hand up Harold’s leg. 

. 

. 

. 


	4. Waking in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in the middle of the night, disoriented.

John woke feeling disoriented, never a good sign. He immediately noticed the light from the New York skyline through the windows of his loft and closed his eyes, slightly relieved but no less vigilant. He’d had numbers in his loft before, and not all of them had been safe to have around. He was in his own bed, though, and it didn’t feel like he’d been drugged, and he hadn’t been tied up, so he had a little less to worry about. He reached for the gun he kept under his pillow. 

It wasn’t there. 

He felt adrenaline flooding his system as he concentrated. No gun — what was going on? Had the number taken it? 

He heard Bear’s breathing, easy and steady in sleep, meaning the person had already left or John had identified them as a non-threat. He heard the distant buzz of traffic he’d become accustomed to as he made the loft a more permanent home than he’d had since he first enlisted. 

Breathing in he smelled coffee, tea. Harold must have been over if he’d made tea. Not the first time that had happened, but he could still count the number of times on one hand. There was the scent of chicken stir-fry, one of his go-to meals when he had the time and inclination to cook. Had he cooked for Harold? That would have been a first. Though they shared the occasional meal and John brought pastries to the Library on a regular basis, they’d never gone as far as cooking for one another. And he still had absolutely no idea where Harold lived, despite the many aliases’s homes and safe houses he’d found. 

Another scent caught his attention — the apartment reeked of sex. Licking his lips he tasted semen. The other side of the bed was empty, but still warm. Whomever he’d brought home had recently left. Is that what woke him? 

He must be losing his edge, to fall asleep next to someone in his own apartment and not wake up until they were already out of bed. He should be better than that! 

But he wouldn’t have brought one of his flings to his apartment and he hadn’t had sex with a man since he worked for the CIA. It was fine for what it was, but it wasn’t what he would choose for himself. Not that he’d had a choice, he reminded himself grimly. When playing the honeypot, one had to be willing to do whatever the asset/mark wanted, one’s own sexuality be damned… 

It certainly wouldn’t be a number he’d had sex with. Harold’s annoyance and jealousy when he flirted with the numbers or had brief dalliances with women were bad enough. He couldn’t imagine Harold’s outrage if he were to actually _sleep_ with a number. There’s no way Harold would allow that. 

So why did he taste semen in the back of his throat? 

Had he _voluntarily_ brought a man home and slept with him? He must have, to have that particular taste in his mouth. Though he’d never had sex with a man recreationally… he supposed there was a first time for everything. He never thought he’d have sex next to a dead body, either, but Kara had seen to making that happen. 

He opened his eyes and scanned the room, seeing Harold’s familiar outline at the far end of the apartment, standing silhouetted in front of the window, presumably gazing down at the park. 

Shit. Had he slept with _Harold?_

_Way to fuck up a perfectly good working relationship,_ he thought bitterly. Harold probably wouldn’t be able to let this go. He didn’t seem like a fuck-buddy kind of man if his dedication to Grace Hendricks was any indication, and John was in no position to deal with the emotional fallout of having to reject his boss as a lover. Nor was he in a position to reject Harold, full stop. He owed Harold so much… 

And it wouldn’t be the first time his employers wanted sex from him… nor the first time that he gave in and gave it… 

A quick fuck after a mission was one thing, he’d done that often enough with Kara and Mark and some others, but what did it mean that he cooked dinner for Harold first? 

What was going on? 

With no gun and no idea what to do, he settled on being straight-forward. It didn’t usually work on Harold, but in the middle of the night he might get lucky and startle the truth out of him, especially if Harold was still under the influence of the endorphins of his orgasm. John might not prefer to have sex with men, but he did it damn near perfectly when he had to. And he’d have wanted to be perfect for Harold… 

“Harold?” he called softly, not recognizing his own voice. _Yeah, I sucked him off at the very least,_ he decided to himself. He suppressed the urge to cough or clear his throat. _My ass doesn’t feel used in any way, which means he must have bottomed… Shit, how is that possible with his injuries?_

“Oh, John, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Harold replied, quickly returning to bed. “I couldn’t sleep,” he added, tossing his dressing gown on the end of the bed and slipping under the covers next to John, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. He was wearing boxers and an undershirt, which made John aware of his own nakedness. 

Complete and total nakedness. 

“Where’s my gun?” John blurted, his hand still scrambling under the pillow. 

“On the coffee table where you left it,” Harold replied. “If you need it closer, please use the nightstand. I know I couldn’t sleep with it under your pillow.” 

John got up and retrieved the gun, getting a better look around the apartment. Harold’s clothing was folded on a chair moved close to his side of the bed, the suit that was presumably John’s with it, though it wasn’t one of his usual suits. Harold must have dressed him up before sleeping over. 

Modesty had never been much of a concern to John, and what little remained by the time he enlisted was drilled out of him in days, but standing naked in his apartment holding a gun with Harold in his bed just a few feet away made him feel exquisitely uncomfortable. He set the gun down on top of the dresser and opened a drawer to find a pair of boxers for himself. 

His underwear didn’t feel right. It felt like silk, like what he imagined Harold would wear, when he allowed himself to imagine what Harold hid beneath his suits. He pulled out a pair, and sure enough, there was no possible way they were his. Deep maroon and a silk so soft it felt like a woman’s negligee. 

He pulled the next drawer open, finding socks; Silk socks, wool socks, striped, checkered, patterned, and every pair neatly folded rather than balled up together. Not a single pair of John’s socks in the drawer. 

Leaving his gun, he dashed to the closet in a few quick strides. Harold’s suits. He didn’t recognize them all, but there were a few familiar favorites. There were Harold’s vests, his shirts, his ties, his belts, his shoes. Everything Harold’s. 

“What kind of practical joke is this?” he demanded in a low voice. 

Harold looked up from his phone. “Pardon?” 

“You switched all my stuff for yours?” 

“I told you before that your suit won’t be here until six,” Harold explained carefully. He put his phone down. “You can leave earlier if you want, of course, but you’d have to wear yesterday’s clothes,” he said, gesturing to the chair. There was a long pause. “I didn’t think you’d leave in the middle of the night,” Harold added softly, disarmingly emotive. To John he sounded disappointed and hurt. 

“Leave? It’s my apartment!” John advanced on Harold, feeling angry. The middle of the night after sex was not the time to play a joke on him, no matter their relationship and how complicated it already was — and was becoming every second they stayed like this. “Unless you want to take over this part of my life, too,” he added, crossing his arms over his chest. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised. You buy all my clothes and everything else, anyway, why should it matter if you want to take over the apartment you gave me _for my birthday?”_

Harold’s face morphed into confusion. He picked up his phone. “Something’s very wrong,” he declared, already typing. 

“Do we have a number?” John asked in a gentler voice, moving to pick up his clothes and get dressed in the only clothes that would fit him. 

“A numb—“ Harold broke off. “John, what year do you think it is?” 

“2013. Why?” 

Harold closed his eyes for a moment. John watched, seeing his shoulders start to shake. He raised a hand to touch Harold’s shoulder. 

“Harold?” 

Harold jumped, dropping his phone. He looked up at John with a small measure of fear on his face. John moved Harold’s suit and sat on the chair so he could get a better look at his boss. He looked older. Much older, and not in that way he sometimes got when he was especially tired. There was more gray than brown in his hair, and the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes were more pronounced. His skin was not as firm as it should have been. 

“Harold?” he asked again, even more gently, any anger gone in the face of Harold’s upset. 

Harold shuddered. “Can you hear me?” he whispered. 

“Of course —“ 

_Yes_ , a female voice said out of the darkness. John immediately tried to place it, the familiar tone setting his teeth on edge. 

Harold reached for the phone lost in the bedsheets. “What’s going on?” he asked. 

_I’m not entirely sure,_ the voice answered. _John, do you recognize my voice?_

John paused, glancing at Harold, then at the phone where the words were glowing up at him. “Root,” he declared without hesitation, his body tensing. 

_When Harold gave me a voice, I chose hers,_ the voice continued. _She’d been my Analogue Interface before she died._

“Analogue Interface? Are you — the Machine?” John asked, awed. “Harold gave you a voice to talk to us?” 

_I knew you weren’t just a knuckle-dragger like she once thought,_ the Machine replied, Root’s humor evident in her tone. 

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, finding the place of calm inside himself that always helped him during battle or other stressful situations. 

_It’s 2020, John,_ the Machine continued. _Harold kept this apartment for four years after he thought you died, and he moved in last week, making it his own. Does any of this sound familiar?_

“2020,” John breathed. He took the phone from Harold and turned it in his hands, not recognizing the model. It was too sleek, too new. “It seems unreal, but…” he looked at Harold, who sat there radiating misery. “Is it telling the truth?” 

“She,” Harold corrected. “Yes, she is. She’s been looking after both of us, separately, but thought it was time for us to reconnect.” 

“I really don’t understand.” 

_Things will be more clear in the morning. My data suggests that if you sleep 4.65 more hours, you will wake refreshed and your memories are likely to be more cohesive. I’ll set an alarm and readjust the delivery time of your suit._

John couldn’t help the chuckle of amusement. “Has your Machine just told me to go to bed?” he asked Harold. 

“I believe she has,” Harold responded, cracking a smile. 

_I also suggest performing oral sex on Harold again. It will give him the confidence to attempt it on you, and the resultant orgasms will allow your sleep to be the most productive._

Harold’s mouth dropped open in shock, his eyes wide. 

John burst out laughing, a real laugh, one that felt more real than any laugh since he left Jessica to re-enlist. He wiped away the tears at the edges of his eyes as he watched Harold pull the battery from his phone with brisk efficiency. 

“Well,” Harold said. 

“Um, yeah,” John responded. 

“You don’t have to —“ Harold started to say while John started talking at the same time. 

“If you want —“ 

They looked at each other for a moment. 

“We no longer work together, Mr. Reese,” Harold said. “If that’s of importance to you. I would never have suggested something like this while you were my employee.” 

“I always thought you were asexual,” John blurted. “You never seemed interested in anyone beyond their brains, and you certainly never responded to my flirting.” 

Harold huffed. “I am, mostly. You’ve recently — I mean — I’ve taken an interest in you,” Harold mumbled. “A sexual interest. A romantic interest. Tonight was our first date. We fooled around after dinner, then went to sleep.” 

“Fooled around,” John repeated. “You make it sound like we’re teenagers.” 

“Fine, you fellated me and I manipulated you to orgasm with my hand,” Harold snapped angrily, turning away. 

“Hey, I didn’t mean —“ 

“I’m sorry, too,” Harold interrupted, his voice contrite. He didn’t move to face John, though. “It was just such a shock to hear you talk like that after the intimacy of earlier. This memory problem of yours is rather more disconcerting than I expected.” 

“Maybe the Machine’s right and we should sleep,” John suggested. He stood. “I’ll take the couch.” He could feel Harold’s pain in the waves of silence at his offer. He sank back onto the chair. “Unless you want me here?” 

“I wouldn’t force you —“ 

“Do you honestly think you can force me to do anything?” 

“Coerce you, then.” 

“If we don’t work together anymore, and we were on a date, and I _chose_ to get in bed with you, I hardly think that’s coercion.” 

“But you think I’m your boss. You’d never do anything like this —“ 

“Harold, let me tell you something, ok? Remember when I tracked down Grace, thinking I would find out where you lived? I was disappointed that there was someone else in your life, that it wasn’t just me. I’m not usually into men, but there’s something about you that makes me consider possibilities. I know you wouldn’t condone a relationship between us while we worked together. Even if I suggested it. Even if I _begged_ for it. I know that! That’s why I never said anything beyond flirting. Well, that and the asexuality. But if you can guarantee that you’re ok with us dating or sleeping together, or whatever else we’re doing here, then that’s all I need to be ok with it.” 

“I’m not very attractive,” Harold protested. “I’m not —“ 

“Your mind, the way it works, that’s one of the most attractive things I’ve ever seen,” John interrupted, speaking over him. “I’ve been with beautiful people. Most of them are shallow, and none of them have been as smart as you. None of them have gotten my blood flowing by lecturing me about books, or buildings, or technology. None of them knew any of that stuff. You have to remember, I’m not a young man anymore, either. I’ve done the beautiful people thing. It’s not a priority.” 

“You’re still beautiful,” Harold whispered. 

“I’m covered in scars and I spent my career killing people. Enjoying it, too, sometimes. There’s nothing beautiful left about me,” John muttered. 

Harold moved to look at John’s expression. His hard look softened slightly. “Oh, for God’s sake, Mr. Reese, get in bed! We’re both too old to be this insecure in the middle of the night.” 

Gratefully, John walked around the bed to get in on his side. Harold shifted to cuddle up with him. John allowed himself to stroke up and down Harold’s arms and back for a few minutes, enjoying the press of their bodies. 

“Do you want that blowjob?’ John finally asked when he couldn’t keep it in any longer, the ideas and fantasies crowding his head. 

“Good God, yes,” Harold exclaimed, lunging to kiss him. “I’m finding sex with you _most_ enjoyable.” 

John chuckled and lay back to let Harold lead for a while before peeling him out of his clothes. 

. 

. 

.


	5. The Next Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold wakes up in bed to find John still in the loft. Will he meet John Warren or John Reese when he gets out of bed?

Harold woke to the scent of bacon and eggs. A breakfast Grace never made, it was usually a treat for himself when he went out. He slowly started doing his morning exercises, working his way through his entire body to undo any stiffness from staying in one position while he slept. He was finishing with his feet and toes when the toaster dinged. 

“Breakfast’s up,” John called softly. 

Harold pushed himself into a sitting position. He ran a hand through his hair and frowned at the snow flurries out the large windows. By the time he made it to the table, in boxers and his dressing gown but otherwise naked, John had set the table for two and was plating the food. He was dressed in his slacks from the day before and a clean shirt. _He must have gone out,_ Harold thought. 

“I have to decide if I want to maintain John Warren’s life,” John said when most of the food had been eaten and they were sitting with second cups of their preferred morning beverages. “He’s _not_ who I want to spend my time being.” 

“You remember?” 

“Most things, I think. There are still some blank patches, but the Machine says they’ll probably be filled in as I go. She’s impressed with how I’m integrating everything.” 

Harold sat up straighter. “You’ve talked to her?” 

“For a few minutes while I walked Bear,” John explained. “She wanted to see how I was doing after what happened in the middle of the night.” 

Harold lowered his eyes, his cheeks heating with a blush. “It was… eventful,” he declared. 

“Educational,” John added. 

“You don’t always need to be flirting, Mr. Reese.” 

“No, but I like it.” John got up to clear the table. “You liked it, too. Don’t tell me you didn’t.” 

“I liked it very much.” Harold watched John do the dishes from where he sat, his chin leaning on his hand. “If you’re not going to be Warren, what shall I call you?” 

John turned back to Harold and smiled. “How about ‘John?’” 

“John,” Harold repeated. 

“I still want to date you. What I said last night still counts, both as Warren and as me.” 

“You have no idea how happy that makes me,” Harold admitted. He held out his hand and John took it, squeezing gently as he sat. “Thank you.” 

They sat there for several minutes, holding hands. Harold leaned forward for a kiss. 

“What now?” John asked. 

“Well, the Machine will have called Warren in sick, in his own voice, of course, so there’s no rush to leave. Has Jerome been by with your suit?” 

“I didn’t just mean today,” John said carefully. “What are we going to do with our lives?” 

“I suppose we could consult with Ms. Shaw and the Machine from time to time,” Harold offered. “Though I’m loathe to do anything requiring running. After the last confrontation with Samaritan, my mobility has been significantly limited.” 

“Now that I’m mostly back to myself, I noticed your limp’s gotten worse.” 

Harold nodded. “I’m in more pain, as well.” 

“Even with the practice I do at the gun range and the workouts every day, I’m not in the same condition I was before. I need reading glasses now, and my aim isn’t what it once was. I doubt I’d be an asset in the field. But I need to do _something_ with my time,” John said. “Something to help people.” 

“I have some ideas. Projects, charitable works,” Harold suggested. He got to his feet and wandered to the window. “What about us?” 

“Is it too soon for me to move in?” 

“This loft can’t be our permanent address.” 

John rolled his eyes. “I know you have other properties.” 

“There’s a place in Brooklyn I’ve been thinking of retiring to,” Harold began. “The building itself is rather old, but I’ve remodeled the interior. It’s near the park and —“ 

John came up behind Harold and wrapped his arms around him. He kissed his temple. “Just tell me where to go, and I’ll be there, Harold. I’m yours.” 

“You are, aren’t you?” Harold leaned back against him and gripped his arm. “Is this love?” he asked in a whisper. “This feeling of safety when I’m with you? This feeling that my heart will burst from happiness? This feeling of desire? It’s as if a dam burst inside me and all I want is to touch you…” 

“That’s love,” John agreed. “That’s being in love.” 

“Oh, my. I can’t imagine not knowing how this feels, yet it’s the first time. I know I never felt this strongly towards Grace. I don’t know what to do.” 

“We’ll figure it out,” John reasoned. “With no numbers, we might actually have time for it.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” John replied. 

“Do you think you might —“ Harold broke off, then screwed up his courage and spoke again. “Could we shower together, perhaps?” 

The hope and trust in Harold’s voice stole John’s breath and it took him a moment to respond. 

“Whatever you want, whenever you want it,” John promised. “I’m yours.” He paused. “I’ll even be your trophy husband at fundraisers,” he added with a smirk. “I think having a trophy spouse is a requirement to be a mysterious, reclusive billionaire.” 

“I haven’t asked you yet,” Harold replied fondly. “And may I say, but you seem softer this morning than I’ve ever known you.” 

“That's because I lived for four years as John Warren,” John said. “I got used to life without the numbers. At some level, it's relaxing. Also boring, of course.” 

Harold snickered. “Of course.” 

“To be serious, though,” John added. “This last day with you being so open, with you sharing about yourself and your experiences, of me sharing back, it's giving me a taste of how we might be from now on. I was only sort of joking when I mentioned being a trophy husband. I would marry you Harold, whether you're Harold Wren or Harold Finch or any of the other Harolds.” 

“Oh, dear,” Harold murmured. He turned to face John, wanting to see the expression on his face. 

John dropped to one knee and held up a simple wedding band he pulled from his pocket. “Will you marry me, Harold?” 

Slowly, Harold reached for the ring and rolled it over and over in his fingers. “A marriage proposal after one date? You must be certain this will work,” he commented, his lip twitching to keep a straight face. 

“The way I see it, you were with Grace for eight years, give or take the six years she thought you were dead. If I don’t get you to marry me in the first month, it’ll never happen. Besides, we’ve been partners for years.” 

Harold hesitated, indecision written on his face in the form of a frown and wrinkled brow. 

“Look at it,” John urged, indicating the ring. 

“Whoever you are, I am yours,” Harold read out loud from the inscription on the inside. 

John reached into his other pocket and produced a second, matching ring. 

“Whoever I am, I am yours,” Harold read. “Would you mind terribly being John Finch?” 

“Not at all,” John replied, allowing himself a bit of hope. He didn’t care one bit what his name was, as long as he was with Harold. 

“Perhaps you should stay Reese, though. I’ve grown so accustomed to it. We’d have to keep our cover identities. I don’t think I’d ever be able to let that go…” Harold trailed off. “Pair Wren with Warren, Crane with Rooney, Partridge with Wiley…” 

“So, is that a yes?” 

“What? Oh, sorry. Yes. Yes, of course.” Harold smiled and John smiled and they kissed. “Now about that shower?” Harold asked, his eyes alight. 

. 

. 

. 


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John proposed. Harold accepted. Now what?

“Congratulations, Captain Fusco,” Harold said, offering his hand. He’d come up beside him at the lunch truck line. 

“Hey, Glasses, how you doing? It’s been a few months,” the newly promoted policeman answered, shaking Harold’s hand enthusiastically. 

“Ah, yes. I had a personal matter to attend to,” Harold responded, brushing imaginary dust off his lapel. Fusco zeroed in on his hand. 

“You got married! Why didn’t you invite me to the wedding? I thought we were friends.” 

“We eloped. It seemed like the best option.” 

“Well, you’d been engaged for like, forever…” 

“I —“ 

“Hello, Lionel,” John said from behind his back, so close that he could breathe on his neck. 

“What the fuck!” Fusco demanded, jumping. He turned and saw John. “I thought you —“ He turned back to Harold, who had an exasperated expression on his face. “But he —“ 

“My grief was real, Captain,” Harold interjected. “I, too, thought John perished that day. It was only last month that I discovered him alive and well in Manhattan.” 

“And you waited this long to tell me? You let him think you were dead?” Fusco growled at John. “You let us all think you were —“ 

“To be fair, John had no memories of me or of our work,” Harold continued. “He thought he was someone else, so he wasn’t able to contact me.” He accepted the tea John handed him. “We ran into each other at a restaurant, and once I knew that he didn’t remember me, we set up a date and worked to get his memories back.” 

“That’s fucked up,” Fusco decided. 

“You’re telling me,” John grumbled. “I had to be an _investment banker_ for four years.” 

“Jesus, how did you survive?” 

“I didn’t know who I was.” 

“And you got your memories back…how?” 

“Our mutual friend,” Harold said. 

“You mean the —“ 

“Yes.” 

They stood in awkward silence for a moment. The line advanced and Fusco ordered. “Well, it’s good to see you looking better than the last few times we’ve met. Not as hopeless, you know. Like you’re actually alive again. You’re not taking up your old job, are you? ‘Cause Shaw’s doing a pretty good job of it, and I don’t think she’d be happy to be knocked off the top spot.” 

“Harold and I have other plans,” John answered, pitching his voice to sound sinister. “We’re going to work to eliminate the base causes of crime.” 

Fusco blanched. “You mean like take out all the mob bosses? That didn’t work out so well for those other idiots who tried it back in ’16.” 

“Poverty, hunger and homelessness,” Harold clarified. 

“Then maybe we’ll tackle racism and sexism,” John added. 

“And if we get a chance, homophobia.” 

“And anti-semitism and islamophobia.” 

“You turning into Mother and Father Theresa, or what? That’s quite the laundry list.” 

“Every bit helps, Captain,” Harold intoned. “Finding that John is alive has given me a renewed desire to help people. It’s rather invigorating.” 

“You don’t say,” Fusco muttered. He caught the look between them, the look they always had that meant they were talking to each other without words. He’d never broken into that language, though he and John had come to an approximation when they worked together as detectives. John raised his coffee to his lips. Sunlight sparkled off platinum. 

“You got married, too? What’s her name?” 

John lowered the coffee and gave him a look. Not The Look, but close enough. 

“Harold,” John answered. 

It suddenly dawned on Fusco what he’d missed. “You married each other?” he clarified. 

“Hmm,” Harold replied, gazing up at John adoringly. “As I said, invigorating,” he repeated. John bent down and kissed him quickly, then turned to grin at Fusco. 

“Hey asshole!” a voice called behind them before Fusco could process what he’d seen. 

John turned in time to miss the punch Shaw threw at him, watched her turn around to face him, anger on her face. 

“You let us think you were dead and then waltz back into our lives like nothing happened?” she demanded. “Do you have any idea how hurt Harold —“ 

“Easy, Shaw. Harold and I had to figure some things out before we could tell you,” John said in his quiet, raspy voice. 

“And when were you gonna tell me?” 

“We’re telling you now,” John replied reasonably. “It just happened that we ran into Lionel on the way to find you.” 

“Do you remember those simulations, Ms. Shaw?” Harold added quickly. “John underwent a similar procedure that took his memories of us and replaced them with the life of John Warren.” 

“His clean cover?” Shaw asked, anger morphing to confusion. “Why would they do that to him?” 

“ _They_ didn’t,” John said. “I chose to do it. I wanted Harold to be free from working the numbers, to be free from all the pain of losing the people closest to him. I wanted him to have a life with Grace.” 

Shaw snorted with laughter, relaxing. “Well, that worked out about as well as a train wreck.” 

“Thank you, Ms. Shaw,” Harold grumbled. He glanced at his watch. “We’ll give you more information soon, however we have to leave. We have an appointment.” On cue black car pulled up beside them. 

“Appointment?” Fusco asked. 

“I’m introducing John to my god-nephew,” Harold explained. “Will Ingram. You should remember him, Captain. You took quite a few pictures of him back when you were following me for John.” 

“You knew about that?” 

“Of course,” Harold, John and Shaw said at the same time. “John wanted to test your skills to determine your potential as an asset. I went along with it because I wanted to see what he’d do with the information I allowed you to have.” 

“Allowed?” 

“Harold is _not_ an easy man to tail,” Shaw pointed out. “He lost both John and me.” She turned to John. “You’re buying me a beer,” she declared. “And a steak.” 

“Am I?” 

“Either that or I remember I’m angry at you for not inviting me to the wedding.” 

Fusco stared at her. “Wait, _you_ knew about —“ 

“They’re wearing matching rings, dummy,” Shaw said to Fusco. “I noticed from two blocks away.” 

Shaking his head, Fusco took his sandwich from the vender and watched John and Harold get in the car. 

“It was bound to happen, you know,” Shaw said. “You wouldn’t believe the sexual tension between those two back in the day!” 

“Nah, I’d believe just about anything, coming from them. As long as they’re happy.” 

“I remember when they came back from Italy after Carter died,” Shaw continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I could’ve sworn they’d spent the entire flight fucking. Turns out Harold was just turned on by John’s new suit and John had a fling with a flight attendant.” 

“I’m not listening!” Fusco barked, walking away. 

Alone on the street, Shaw glanced up at the security camera on the nearest light pole. “Thank you for saving them,” she whispered. The light blinked red. 

Nearby, a payphone started ringing. 

. 

. 

. 

End


End file.
